Resurrection

I’m both feet deep into a bottle of mediocre red wine.  I just have to break this hibernation.  Crawl out of the lazy bear cave.  Nothing has been sounding right lately.  I try and write something, and it sounds forced, like I’m trying way too hard to be some skewed idealized version of myself.  Like some asshole blogging Zoey Deschanel, with dark blunt bangs and mary jane heels, blinking my vacant doe eyes way too fucking much, trying to be so stomach-churningly cute.

You know I want a cleansing pure psyche reunion when I start blasting Pearl Jam’s “Release”.  Even that sounds contrived, but I really do die for that fucking song.  Any song that says “rocking horse of time” I’m of course going to obsess over for twenty plus years.  Mainly this is just some misguided pathetic writing exercise I’m forcing upon myself like some shitty high school English pupil.  Just keep writing.  Don’t stop.  Just write.  “I wait up in the dark for you to speak to me.”  God that lyric takes me back to weepy teenage nights clutching my parents’ smuggled cordless phone into my room, my heart ripping for that ‘him’ to call me.  Moving on to “Kinda I Want To” off of NIN’s Pretty Hate Machine.  I really have to stop romanticizing my teen years through 90’s music but I just can’t stop myself.  “And I know it’s not the right thing and I know it’s not the good thing but kinda I want to.”  Way to sum up the illogical human want right there with a dirty crawling dungeon thump.

So I’m resurrecting myself from my blogging hiatus.  I’m going to post things I should probably just keep to myself.  Ramblings best left to sorry drunks in seedy hometown dive bars.  Even unicorns long to breathe fire every once in a while.

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Groping the Grohl

THE FOO FIGHTERS, THE FORUM, LOS ANGELES, 10/13/2011

Nine years ago, I was obsessed with the Foo Fighters’ video for All My Life.  I was living in Ohio in a nothing special apartment, working at an everyday car dealership, and the thought of ever escaping to California was no where near conception.  When I watched the video, it awakened something inside me.  There was such rawness, such passion, so much of it that I wanted for myself.  The band was performing the song on the stage of a huge venue, and at the end, when the lights went up, the crowd was empty.  There was nobody there.  Yet they had played as if the world had been watching.  I remember thinking back then, if only I could be in that audience.  If only I was standing there jumping and cheering for them.  What a waste that no one had seen it.  I wanted them to know that I really saw it, and yearned to be transported into the vacant room.

I loved the song so much that I shared the CD with my best friend Jessica way back then.  She couldn’t get enough, and the band quickly became her number one favorite.  She surpassed me in her dedication, and throughout the years attended Foo Fighters shows and let her admiration for Dave Grohl be known to the world.

Fast forward to last week, and Jessica and I were on the floor of The Forum in L.A. at a Foo Fighters show, my first Foo Fighters show.  There Dave Grohl was, stopped right in front of us on the runway, just a tiny bit out of reach.  Jessica and I were right there, we had staked our claim in the front row of this stage appendage.  No one was getting in our way.  Dave Grohl was ours for the taking.  The other faceless fans were of no matter.  We were the only two people in the crowd.  It was all happening just for us.

I had no clue how to hold it together.  I wanted to claw at my own torso and dig in, slowly drag out my guts, then raise my bloody hands into the air with my intestinal peace offering to the rock god before me.  I jumped up and down, and with my arms stretched towards him like a little 60’s Beatles freak I screamed, “I love you!!!!”  He turned a bit, seemed like he was about to walk the other way, and then in a split moment of surreal cosmic magnetism, he stepped off the stage and walked right up to Jessica and me, like he was riding some invisible overpowering tsunami wave towards us.  I had been thinking, please just touch our hands, just for a second, I just really wanted that for Jessica.  She is his number one fan, she had flown out from Cleveland to see him, and she deserved it more than anybody.  And then there he was, but not touching our hands, no, he was practically mounting our faces as he raged out on his guitar to My Hero.  He then said, “Right back at ya”and banged his head forward as his sopping wet hair sprayed a shower of sweat all over our vibrating bodies.  My mind couldn’t at all comprehend what he had meant, until a few seconds later I realized he must have been responding to me.  I had just screamed out my love for him.  I hadn’t even meant to do it, the words were just suddenly leaping off my vocal chords.  Jessica and I had desired him so much that we had physically lured him into our arms.

Since my arms were already outstretched and his hands were occupied with delivering sonic perfection, all I could do was start feeling him up.  I touched at his stomach, his side, my eyes wide, only a low, thin, flimsy metal gate separated us.  Jessica was freaking out right along side me, spastically discovering the ripples in his sleek sticky body.  I could see a few limbs reaching over our heads, sort of poking at him, and then my eyes went to his pectoral, and like a sick freak, I just start rubbing all over his pecs and chest, just exploring like a fumbling pervy horndog preteen.  Yet somehow, even as sexually charged as it was, there was an innocence to it all.  It was all more of a transfer of positive strong energy.  He morphed into a rockstar Care Bear, and he was beaming his Care Bear heart, pumping life and hope and a fearless future into our racing, wanting human hearts.

It suddenly dawned on me that I could be arrested, that I shouldn’t just be having my way with Dave fucking Grohl as 15,000 fans looked on with shock, amazement and thick envy.  But the bouncers did nothing.  They didn’t flinch.  And more importantly, Dave Grohl pumped his chest even bigger towards us as we openly molested him.  He genuinely seemed just as lost in the moment as we were.  And he didn’t miss a note.  We ravaged him as he played hard for the packed house.

Then he kind of snapped out of it, seeming to realize that maybe he shouldn’t just be standing there as we publicly groped him like a violated passenger on a crowded subway.  And off he went, back down the runway, to join his bandmates and finish out the song.

As he walked away, I felt all of my major organs fail at once.  Every extremity was buzzing, and I didn’t know whether to start sobbing or vomiting.  I felt the room’s eyes on us, and I almost wanted to duck so I could flip the fuck out in peace.  But I just looked in Jessica’s equally glassy eyes and we rode out the endorphin high together.  My sheer ecstasy had everything to do with Jessica.  I had wanted a Dave Grohl encounter with her so badly that when it finally happened for the both of us, I just felt my heart do a series of methed-out backflips.

This would be the only time he stepped off the stage the entire night.  It never happened again.  He barely even touched anyone else’s hands.

I will never be able to convey the impact this experience made on Jessica and me.  And in a way, I love it that way.  It was a moment, a sudden electrical jolt, and Dave Grohl was the bathtub filled with sweat, and Jessica and I served as the turned on hair dryers leaping ourselves into his slippery genius.  Maybe we all died in that moment.  Maybe the electricity created a new universe in a far off galaxy.  Maybe we are still there, frozen in the pure unexpected realization of a lustful secret dream.

Oh and that video I talked about earlier for All My Life?  I wouldn’t realize it until the next morning when we pulled it up on youtube, but guess where they filmed it?  Guess where that empty room was that I had so longed to be in all those years ago?  The Forum in Los Angeles.

 

[Above, at 2:45 you can see our moment.  Thank you random youtuber for posting this video.]

Posted in Eardrum Desserts, Emerald City | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

Reality TV Makes Me Sad

There is something so cathartic about taking a bunch of unrelated images and arranging them in a way that makes sense.  It gives me the feeling that I can make sense of anything, even of my own chaotic life.  It can sometimes take only one image or set of words to ignite that creative flame that lives deep beneath my belly fat.  In my latest issue of Nylon, I discovered a picture of a rhinestone necklace that read “Reality TV Makes Me Sad”.  And that was the image that spiraled this latest project into motion.  I had been saving a photo of Lykke Li from an Interview magazine, and I had the idea to combine the two to create a glittery homage to sadness.

I recently discovered the thrills of patterned duct tape, so I decided to leopardize the picture frame.  Seriously, I’ve never been so in love with tape before.  I then of course showered the entire collage in gold glitter (Rose Quartz by Martha Stewart to be exact) because I’m forever in lust with shiny objects.  I feel as if the gold glitter sort of acts as metallic tears.

The final product is a creation that I connect to perhaps more than any of my previous collages.  Yes, the women are sad, but I feel like it is one of those good sads, like the sadness you feel after a really good cry or when a haunting song really gets into the core of you.  The kind of sad that reminds you of who you are and what you care about.  It is a cleansing sad, like a rain washing out the day’s filth to make room for a sunnier day. 

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Galaxy Merger

If a super tripped out blacklight poster came to life, it would look and sound like this.

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Lunar Broadcast

Lykke Li is a haunting, space-soaring Barbarella.  Looking into her eyes is like free-falling along galaxies.  She really just might be singing from the moon.

This week I won free tickets to her November 7th show at the Fox Theater from my favorite radio station, Moheak Radio (listen online at www.moheakradio.com). 

I’m looking forward to the complimentary starship ride into the echoey, deep beyond.

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Spellbound

Siouxsie Sioux

Ever since witches were introduced into the plot of True Blood this season, the song Spellbound by Siouxsie and the Banshees has been playing in my head as I watch the episodes.  Tonight’s episode titled Spellbound finally used the song over the closing credits. 

True Blood sprinkled with some Siouxsie Sioux makes one hell of a love potion.  Oh how my mind melts when my most cherished favorite songs are used to bring a richer meaning to modern popular culture.  It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it is nothing short of magic.

Now I’m just waiting to hear Concrete Blonde’s Bloodletting during an extra hot fangbanging scene.

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Horsing Around

Today at work I was asked to run over to the commissary to pick up my boss’s lunch.  When I turned the corner to head down the alley to the take out window, the most beautiful espresso colored pony was walking towards me.  He was being led by a guy with a safari hat who I assume was his trainer.  I nearly gasped at the sight of this majestic creature limbering across the cement in the melty afternoon sun.  His hooves made clippity clop sounds and as I got closer, I saw that he was wearing freshly polished silver horseshoes.  His long black hair swung along in the breeze as he proudly pranced along, and I swear he was smiling at me as our paths crossed.

Once I returned to my office, still high from the pony sighting, I excitedly told my coworker all about my new baby horse friend.  She was half listening to me as she looked through some papers while I rambled on that I saw a pony and that his mane was so shiny.  She looked at me really weird for a minute and said, “What?  You saw Conan and he has a shiny mane?”

She had misheard me and thought I had seen Conan O’Brien.  I don’t know how she heard ‘Conan’ from the word ‘pony’, but I can only imagine that the pony high was causing me to speak at an accelerated, incoherent pace.  Conan often eats at the commissary because Conan tapes on the lot, so it wouldn’t have been that unusual.  It would have been more usual in fact to see him rather than a pony.  Once I told her it was a pony and not Conan, we busted up laughing at the thought of Conan O’Brien with a shiny horse mane.  

If Conan were a pony, his name would definitely be Coco.  And I’m Team Coco all the way. 

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